There are moments in one’s life that can never be forgotten. A fleeting presence in a situation, a look, a word, a glance, a retort. Some memories do stick like barnacles, and it is painful memories that are most tenacious since pain often leaves a scar.

In the bigger order of things, some things might be deemed trivial, not worth a mention, they might be perceived as unimportant , of no consequence, soon forgotten, but the big picture is made of many little pictures, tiny stories, monumental triumphs and tragic losses that matter; really matter.

The life changing moments will not be discernible by the observer looking at the complexity of a big picture from a distance, but for the protagonists living through the intricate mesh of life’s spontaneous presents, it’s a different story altogether.

There was this beautiful very old lady lying on a stretcher in the corridor at Mater Dei, with glittering blue glass rosary beads wrapped around her thin emaciated fingers, wearing a light rose pink coloured nightdress, snowy hair lovingly smoothed away from her sweaty feverish brow by her son’s doting hand.

She was whispering softly to her son, who was visibly straining to sift out her soft words from among the noise and deafening background din . Her free hand was tightly clasped in his , until all of a sudden, there was a moment of consternation as the man child sobbed and literally shrieked out “mietet, mietet, hallejtuha tmut fil-kurutur” - “She died, she died. You let her die in a corridor.”

I will never forget the face of the broken man, the tears streaming down his contorted face, his heaving shoulders and his heartbroken sobs as he tried to hug his mum back to life, mumbling away that he had failed her, at the most crucial moment he had failed her, let her die in a corridor, an impersonal cold, draughty corridor.

Then there was the phone call from the lady who raised 11 children, who needed an operation, did the operation, knew that she couldn’t take care of herself and the 8o-year-old dependent she had at home. She was terrified that they would drag her out of hospital by ambulance, drop her in her home, unassisted, because none of her children could take her. One does not forget the anguish and the pain in that voice the defeat, the rejection, the loneliness.

The vast majority of people are sick and tired of hearing the pot call the kettle black. They are only interested in getting value for their vote to Labour twice in two years. Manipulation of events, manipulation of the media and impeccable marketing can paint a dazzlingly beautiful big picture of languor and contentment, but the little people who can only be discerned with a magnifying glass in the tumult of a wider impression are living well below the now distant soon unrecognisable umbrella of illusion .

We little people have remained human, and feel and fear for the present and future of our families. We seek solutions, not excuses. In short Government and opposition should not quibble about allowing a people’s life to be in jeopardy from any aspect.

Instead political energy should be spent in recognizing the strength of the evolving middle majority, the significance of the generation who will outlive its life as much as it has already outspaced its space, and the smart invisible throngs who hang on to their humanity through rationality. If local politics is to retain enough relevance to matter when it matters most, it has to respect the masses ‘newly found awareness’.

Our precious health services were in the limelight once again these last few days. It seems that the flaws and cracks are not limited to the administration of this vast and indispensable service, but are also in the very structure of the flag bearer of the whole state of the art services.

Now, we might debate ourselves hoarse in Parliament and hurl insults at the incompetence of successive governments and their trusted architects, contractors and so on, and I definitely expect any negligence, corruption to be uncovered and duly punished (I still dream about clean governance one day). But what I expect most is that come December , January, February, when the demand for hospital care usually spikes, this Government would have in place the necessary alternatives to give our tax payers dignified, holistic care in a safe hospital environment. The same goes for accident and emergency. Almost two years down the line, and with many more reports and much groundwork (and spadework) already carried out by the previous minister, many people are expecting a tangible improvement on the shortcomings that were left in the health service by the previous administration, which we so vociferously deplored.

Today, 8 September, our country celebrates a great victory over what seemed to be an insurmountable force. Vastly outnumbered, thousands of Maltese men, women and children, united Maltese, fought side by side with the Knights of St John who to them represented Rule of Law and a way of life that worked. Over five centuries later, our country can look back with pride at other triumphs that have coloured our history, but to me 8 September remains the most memorable and noteworthy, and uniting of them all.

I am surely one of those Maltese who strongly believe that 8 September should indeed be our National Day.